


Knowing When to Dance

by MariaPriest



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 17:23:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14794748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MariaPriest/pseuds/MariaPriest
Summary: Solo needs the help of his wounded partner when their helicopter flies into bad weather.





	Knowing When to Dance

**Author's Note:**

> Two missing scenes to "The Finny Foot Affair"

The helicopter bucked unexpectedly, tossing Kuryakin against the window. "Ah!" he cried out softly from the increased pain in his wounded arm. Almost immediately, the bleeding grew precipitously. Illya knew the bullet had moved and damaged more tissue. At least the blood vessels in the deltoid muscle were small so bleeding out would take some time. He clamped his left hand even tighter on the wound. "Napoleon, please, no aerobatics today." He swallowed. "And hurry."

"That bump wasn't intentional, my friend. Squall at 12 o'clock." Solo's tone was tight nonchalance, which he usually saved for occasions such as these.

Straight ahead of them was an ugly, dark blue sky. The sheets of rain were so thick they were clearly visible. The wind, as the 'copter drew closer, became more and more vicious.

"Illya, I better fly around this. Think you can hold on a little longer?" When there was no response, Napoleon took a quick glance over his shoulder. _Damn!_

Illya was at best semi-conscious. The sleeve of his hazmat suit was now fully red. If he flew around the dangerous weather system, Illya stood little to no chance of making it to U.N.C.L.E.--London. But if he flew through the storm, he'd need Illya's assistance; without it, they most likely would be doomed.

The storm made the decision for him when it suddenly was upon them. It buffeted the 'copter, flinging both agents around the small space.

"Kuryakin!" Napoleon shouted in his command voice. "Stay with me! Help me fly this machine so we can _both_ have lunch."

Illya's eyes fluttered open. "Napo-" He was interrupted by a particularly severe bit of turbulence.

A sudden dive had Napoleon working the collective with both hands. "Illya! Take the stick _now_!"

Long-ingrained obedience to commands had the Soviet reaching with his right hand for the cyclic despite the painful effort. That flooded him with adrenaline and cleared his head. Amazed he could do anything with that arm, he gripped the stick as hard as he could so his blood-coated hand wouldn't slip.

Flying helicopters was his forte, something he could do in his sleep, virtually instinctual for him. Napoleon, on the other hand, was the superior fixed-wing pilot but was very good with a chopper. Together, he knew they could do this.

So they flew the chopper together, as if they'd practiced this particular dance a thousand times to perfection. Only rare, calm, one-word instructions came from Illya, which Napoleon performed immediately and flawlessly. The only thing that betrayed their apparent composure was the sweat that drenched them both.

As quickly as they'd entered the squall, they were out of it. Bright blue, clear sky stretched ahead of them.

Illya yielded the stick back to his partner. "Napoleon, if it is okay with you, I'll pass out now." His eyes rolled upwards and his body rolled to the right until it was against the fuselage.

Solo frantically looked for a place to land. He had to get the bleeding stopped. Fortunately, less than a mile away, there was a field of some sort of crop that would serve his purpose. Waverly wouldn't be pleased with having to pay damages to the farmer, but it was cheaper than replacing a highly trained and effective agent.

And it would be impossible to replace his best friend and partner.

oOo

Napoleon playfully smacked Kuryakin's chest. "Recuperate!"

Illya scowled at him. "I don't need to recuperate. I am fine. The wound is insignificant."

"'Insignificant' in the world according to Solo does not include two units of blood."

"Perhaps your world needs expanding."

"The only thing that needs expanding is your social life, my friend. How about we find two of the fairer sex who would like to trip the light fantastic when I get back from Norway?"

"I'm not sure… What is this 'trip'?"

Napoleon chuckled. "Dancing, _tovarishch_. Just dancing. Unless, ah, you're _really_ not up to it and only have the strength to lounge around in some pub eating fish and chips and swilling pints of the local brew," he said with a lassitude he hoped would make Illya put the kibosh on that idea.

Illya's face lit up like the sun. "That is an excellent suggestion, Napoleon! There is a superb public house near Piccadilly that is one of my favorites."

Napoleon's mouth opened but he didn't have a comeback. How could he deny his injured friend? And Illya knew it.

Illya snickered. "Hoisted with your own petard, my friend."

Napoleon snarled. "Sneaky Russian."

Illya gave him a cat-that-ate-the-canary smile. " _Hungry_ Russian."

the end  
© 2018

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to CoriKay for the beta.  
> Response to a Section VII challenge with prompts of dark blue and lounge


End file.
